Revelry

We had all but give up on Whitey’s. I had for some time considered to to be “my bar.” It is a wonderful place. Unlike many bar-n-grill types of places, it is spacious. They grill up the best burgers in town. Generally, I like the ambience.

Generally.

It was one Friday night in July. I was to meet Jay and Jessica there for the usual night of revelry. Usually, I look forward to cracking open that wooden door, stepping out of the heat and sitting down at the bar and having a nice, cold beer. On this early Friday evening, though, I stepped into hell.

They had this deejay there, and the air conditioning was broken. This deejay was playing songs and yelling trivia questions to the audience, which mostly consisted of overly-testosteronated, whooping military types. We sat in one of their booths just to be farther from the blaring speakers, and at one time told the guy that we were finding it hard to have a conversation, and could he turn it down just a bit?

Eventually, they turned the lights down and started moving the pool tables and putting up signs that read: “No Moshing Or Aggressive Behavior.” This, to us, was a sure sign that it was time to split. We did, and we swore that we’d never be back. (We ended up at Galaxy Hut.)

We weren’t, until last night. The plan was to go bar hopping in Clarendon. We’d start with some billiards at Whitey’s, in the early afternoon before the hell began. Well, it never did, or at least, not that I remember. So, we never left.

This morning I’m feeling a bit sluggish, but it’s good to know that the bar formerly known as “my bar” hasn’t entirely lost its mind.

A Horrible Reenactment

September 20, 2002
A Horrible Reenactment
Hey, boy.
Yeah, paw?

Let’s us rush the field and beat the shit outta that bald guy.

Whut?

Yeah, let’s us rush the field and beat the shit outta that funny lookin’ bald guy.

Why for, paw?

‘Cuz he looks funny. I think he might be mixed.

Mixed, paw? Aw, come on.

Well, mixed or funny or something. He don’t look right.

Sigh.

C’mon, you big sissy. I betcha we can take ‘im.

Yeah, but paw, it’ll be on teevee and all. All my friends’ll see.

Boy, tell you what. You jump out with me an’ beat the shit outta that bald guy, and I’ll buy you a six pack of the Rock when we git home.

Yeah?

Yeah.

How ’bout a pack o’ cigarettes?

Mmmmmmm, boy, you drive a hard bargain.

And rubbbers, paw. I really need some rubbers. You know how Colleen is about me wearin’ them rubbers when we’re a’ bumpin’ rugs. Will you buy me some rubbers, paw?

If you go down into that field with me and beat the shit outta that bald guy, I’ll buy you some rubbers, boy.

All right, paw. You got it.

Okay, boy! I knew you had it in you! Let’s go get that mixed motherscratcher.

Yeah! Hey, paw?

Yeah, boy?

I love you.

Shuddup, boy.

——————————————————————————–

Another Way To Look At It
My Dad, on the bizarre attack on Royals coach Tom Gamboa: I think the good news is that there are still some fans left out there who care… who really really really care!!

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BOOOOO!
Just as a surgeon is finishing up an operation, the patient wakes up, sits up, and demands to know what is going on. “I’m about to close,” the surgeon says. The patient grabs his hand and says, “Oh, no you’re not! I’ll close my own incision.” The doctor hands him the needle and says, “Suture self.”

Oh…My…GOD!

At 4:24 p.m., some news hit the CNN that just has me GOT with JOY and incredible RAPTURE!

Hallelujah! Yip-yaw, even. A circuit court has just ruled that the pledge of allegiance violates the Constitution.

Well of course it does. I’ve been clamming up for years when those particular words come around because I prefer to keep supreme beings and universe creators out of my government, thank you. I mean, if we’re all here swearing to be part of a nation “under god,” what the hell does that mean to me if I worship a different god? Or a godess? Or a toaster? Is it anybody’s business under the auspices of nationalism to strictly limit my avenues of worship, to tell me that I should feel beholden to a specific concept of a Universal Being? Should anyone, especially a child, ever be prodded into such blatant and inappropriate catterwauling about “God,” especially in the name of the nation, fearing retribution if they dare keep their hands in their pockets instead of installing one directly over the heart?

It just gives me some comfort to know that some legal minds somewhere are trying to make this sucker make a little more sense. The Constitution specifically prohibits government in America from dictating religion to its people. The post-’54 “pledge” does indeed dictate religion to Americans. Gotta agree with the circuit court, baby. With liberty…and justice…for all…

No. But There Is A Phylum.

I just got something in the mail from the Society of National Association Publications.

Hold the phone…there’s a society for publications of associations?

Is there a guild for such societies?

Is there an association of such guilds?

Is there a kingdom of said associations?

If so…how do I join?

*

I am losing my mind.

The printer calls. Aaron, he says, I don’t believe you sent the postage check.

Oh, sure I did, says I, I just sent it a day early, so you must have it.

We hang up. He tears up his plant looking for it, digging through garbage cans, looking in files, his co-workers are going, what the hell are you looking for?

He calls back. No check.

So I go tearing through my office looking for it, pulling up papers, looking in files, sweating bullets because I would look so very foolish if I had indeed lost the check.

I remembered tearing the stub off and filing it, so I figured at least if I had the stub, I would look somewhat responsible, and perhaps I could acquire a copy of said check…

As it turns out, I seem to have filed them both.

It is Friday, isn’t it?

*

Me: What’s that?
Our Company’s Computer Guy: That’s a UPS.
Me: What’s it do?
Our Company’s Computer Guy: It’s a UPS.

The Fishin’ Hole

In my office, every day at approximately the same time, one of my co-workers starts whistling The Fishin’ Hole, also known as The Andy Griffith Show Theme Song. This is a new development, and a bit strange.

You see, a few years back, I met Barney Fife.

Well…sorta. I met the man who is probably the most effective Barney Fife impersonator in the country. His name is David Browning, and he’s as close to the “official” Barney Fife impersonator there is. Even Mr. Knotts approves…

Browning came out to a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Johnston County to help celebrate its opening. He was funny. Very effective as the bungling lawman. He had the car, the hat, the buggy eyes, the awkward stance…and yes, Virginia, he had the bullet in his pocket. It was a brilliant performance, brilliant enough to make my front page that week. (Sure, it was a slow newsweek. ALL of them were slow newsweeks in Johnston County.) And, frankly, brilliant enough for me to become a fan of the show and a novice trivia buff…(quick, why’d Fife decide he could put an “M.D.” in front of his name?)

Sometimes, I miss Raleigh so damned bad. I miss the incredibly lush quality that the foliage has there. I miss REAL barbecue. I miss being a stone’s throw from Chapel Hill. Hell, I miss Fuquay-Varina, believe it or not. And I really miss it every time I say “hey” to a stranger in this particular metropolitan area just to be walked through like I’m a ghost. So much as open your mouth in some parts of Carolina, and you’ve just shot the next 45 minutes on friendly conversation.

But I can’t ever deny that my spiritual home is D.C. I began the process of adopting this place when I was 13 years old. Visits with Dad showed this generally medium-sized-college-town youngster what the metropolitan life could offer. There’s no decent Thai food in Kent, no expansive art museums where you might actually see a Dali, no public transit. Of course, there’s not much chance that an airplane will end up flying into Brady’s Cafe. I guess a large part of life is picking your dangers. Proximity to the dastardly deeds of terrorists, or, um…boredom? Yep, I think I’ve pretty much made my pick.

But. I really wish they’d stop whistling that.

The Fishin' Hole

In my office, every day at approximately the same time, one of my co-workers starts whistling The Fishin’ Hole, also known as The Andy Griffith Show Theme Song.

You see, a few years back, I met Barney Fife.

Well…sorta. I met the man who is probably the most effective Barney Fife impersonator in the country. His name is David Browning, and he’s as close to the “official” Barney Fife impersonator there is. Even Mr. Knotts approves…

Browning came out to a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Johnston County to help celebrate its opening. He was funny. Very effective as the bungling lawman. He had the car, the hat, the buggy eyes, the awkward stance…and yes, Virginia, he had the bullet in his pocket. It was a brilliant performance, brilliant enough to make my front page that week. (Sure, it was a slow newsweek. ALL of them were slow newsweeks in Johnston County.) And, frankly, brilliant enough for me to become a fan of the show and a novice trivia buff…(quick, why’d Fife decide he could put an “M.D.” in front of his name?)

Sometimes, I miss Raleigh so damned bad. I miss the incredibly lush quality that the foliage has there. I miss REAL barbecue. I miss being a stone’s throw from Chapel Hill. Hell, I miss Fuquay-Varina, believe it or not. And I really miss it every time I say “hey” to a stranger in this particular metropolitan area just to be walked through like I’m a ghost. So much as open your mouth in some parts of Carolina, and you’ve just shot the next 45 minutes on friendly conversation.

But I can’t ever deny that my spiritual home is D.C. I began the process of adopting this place when I was 13 years old. Visits with Dad showed this generally medium-sized-college-town youngster what the metropolitan life could offer. There’s no decent Thai food in Kent, no expansive art museums where you might actually see a Dali, no public transit. Of course, there’s not much chance that an airplane will end up flying into Brady’s Cafè. I guess a large part of life is picking your dangers. Proximity to the dastardly deeds of terrorists, or, um…boredom? Yep, I think I’ve pretty much made my pick.

But, goddammit. I really wish they’d stop whistling that.


Because There Are Children in China Who Can’t Hotsync, That’s Why…
I just bought a Palm M130.


So I was given a URL for a site called “Funky Chickens,” which is touted as a fabulous “how-to” on the fine art of HTML.

It’s so horrible, I’m not even going to link to it.

I mean, you know you’re in the wrong place when the site comes up and is using one of those “cute” little Javascripts that makes a particular phrase trail your mousepointer as you move it about the site. Then, you start to explore this warehouse of Web design information and discover that the purpose of this site seems to be to shamelessly promote the use of the most annoying and least reliable HTML tags ever invented. ONENTRY popups, MARQUEE…oy, I was suprised not to see an entire section dedicated to “BLINK.” Geez…

At the same Bat-time…there is actually some cool stuff on the ol’ Internet box. And…by the by…It seems that New York City is self-medicating…is anyone as shocked at this story as I am, he asked sardonically?

Buried in Paper

A bit for you today regarding how my mind works, as if you might find this topic fascinating…

As I have slightly lamented in this particular column, I have recently moved from a Nice, Big, Windowed Office into a less nice, smaller, windowless office. As I have said, I must say again: I am pleased as hell to have an office at all, or, for that matter, to even have a job and the wits with which to perform it reasonably well.

::kicking dirt:: I still miss my damned window, though.

Anyway. When I was in my bigger office, and after I inherited the additional responsibilities as Webmaster for my organization, I had to do some detective work, which meant I had to spend some time cleaning out the office belonging to the previous Webmaster. (I didn’t ogle anything personal, bro’. Don’t fuss.)

Now, personally, I’m not sure how this lad ever got anything done. He was buried in paper. Piles of it, reams of it, acres of it, everywhere could find it, there was paper. I think he had the entire Webmonkey Cold Fusion tutorial printed out twice (it’s several hundred pages long). So, I pitched about half of it, kept the receipts and some of the stuff that looked like it would contain vital information, and I dumped those papers onto an empty tabletop in my nice, roomy office. As I had time, I would sort through the mess of papers, pull out the 5 percent of what was worth keeping, and recycle the rest. Despite my best efforts, deadlines were my real priority, and I didn’t mitigate but perhaps a third of the pile.

Of course…in my new office, there’s no tabletop. No room for one.

So all that pile of stuff that I haven’t gone through, it’s on the floor in front of my desk.

Oh, I could put this pile in the drawer of the filing credenza. There’s enough room there, and it would remove this unsightly mess.

If I do that, though, what will be my incentive to actually clean the mess up? If it’s out of sight, it will be out of mind, and it will continue to be an unmanageable stack of obsolete paper. If I leave it where it is now, and I get enough “tsk tsk” noises clucked at me, I will have a grand incentive to actually send pounds and pounds of this useless paper packing.

Do I think too hard?

Marketing Push Just Beginning For Rukeyser

By Serge Colonblow

(ABP)–Don’t feel bad for Louis Rukeyser.

As it turns out, when Rukeyser was told to step out on his long-running television show, “Wall Street Week With Louis Rukeyser,” he stepped onto a veritable money truck.

CNBC knew a good thing when they saw it–the cable network immediately snapped up the popular finance guru for a show of his own, on cable, with a few rules of its own. The show will not be commercially supported but will be underwritten, as was Rukeyser’s PBS program.

“I insisted on this,” said Rukeyser. “These days many, if not most, of my viewers do have access to cable, but many do not. They have been…extremely loyal to the program, and I wanted to make sure it was available to them.”

Rukeyser denied inside rumors that the show was originally to have been titled “Rukeyser’s Bitchin’ Budweiser Financial Hour”; nor would he acknowledge the rumor that producers had been negotiating with former “Happy Days” star Erin Moran to appear on the show, possibly actually wearing money.

He was jubilant, however, about the Louis Rukeyser action figures.

“Check this out!” said Rukeyser. “He’s got a cape!”

Expect also a Saturday morning cartoon series, merchandising tie-ins with Burger King, and a hot dog fryer bearing the Rukeyser name.

The Office

My senior year in college, I worked as in intern in Washington, D.C. No, not one of those kinds of internships. I spent two days a week at a little media group that tended to work with leftish non-profits, or not-for-profits, or whatever you call ’em. When I worked there, I formed one notion of what I wanted to achieve after college: A job in Washington, D.C., an office with a big window, and a reasonably comfortable life. I was essentially shooting for a job as a newsletter editor and a nice place to live in Northern Virginia.

You know what? For awhile, I had all of that. Today, though, I lost the office.

I now reside from nine to five in a smaller, danker office without a window. And…um…well, there’s this STENCH…

Yes, friends, life just keeps getting better and better. And better. (‘Sokay, ya’ll. I got my eyes on the prize. I’ll get there someday.)